


Between the Cracks

by paradiamond



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal POV, Kintsugi, M/M, Post-Season 4, Relationship Negotiation, dealing with past Issues, teacup metaphor won’t die, understandable difficulty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 13:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: After the fall, Will and Hannibal recover in a safe house in Japan, and try to repair what’s broken between them.





	Between the Cracks

**Author's Note:**

> “...in repairing the object you really ended up loving it more, because you now knew its eagerness to be reassembled, and in running a fingertip over its surface you alone could feel its many cracks - a bond stronger than mere possession.” 
> 
> -Nicholson Baker, Room Temperature

The breeze drifted in through the open window, bringing with it the scents of trees and other life. In their little house it seemed like the rest of the world was far away. Unreachable. It was peaceful, deceptively so. Will broke the silence first. 

“I think we should live in different spaces.” 

Hannibal paused, gathering his thoughts. He slid his bookmark back into place and sat up straight to deal with the worse side of his better half. “Is that what you want?” 

Will made a sound like a grunt. He was wearing Hannibal’s shirt. Not out of any sense of possessive comfort or seduction, though the image was appealing, but because their laundry line had been rained on and he had no other options. “No.” 

It was almost difficult to keep his expression clear of exasperation. “Then why?” 

“I’m driving you crazy,” Will replied, demonstrating that very quality admirably. He crossed one leg over the other. Defensive, then. 

Hannibal smiled at him. “You are not.” 

Will frowned back, his eyes narrowed. He curled a hand under his chin, like the claw of a great bird. “Don’t lie to me, I can tell.”

“Am I driving you crazy?”

“Yes,” Will shot back. 

Hannibal refused to rise to the bait, shifting down on the couch ever so slightly, making a show of getting comfortable. They communicated like this often, in gestures and performative expressions. “We can work on that.” 

Will gave him a very dry look. “Like normal people?”

Hannibal kept his face neutral. Professional. “Perhaps we should try couple’s therapy.” 

That earned him a twisted smile. Point taken. “Therapy doesn’t work on me.”

“No?” Hannibal teased, dropping the act. While fun, he didn’t actually get much out of harkening back to their roots, their former selves. He preferred how they were now, together. 

“No,” Will said, with an air of finality. 

Hannibal tipped his head. “Where exactly do you propose to live? A second Japanese safe house that our mutual friend happens to have access to?” 

Will rolled his eyes. He was feeling trapped, but moving wouldn’t ease the strain. It was less to do with living arrangements, or even Hannibal himself, then it was to do with his recurring guilt. “I don’t think the logistics should really be the deciding factor.” 

Hannibal hummed and looked out towards the window. “You would go live in the woods if I let you.” 

“Let me?” Will said back, pointed, but not as venomous as he would have been before. He seemed to be warring between genuine offence and amusement. It was a line they had walked frequently, ever since they recovered from their mutual near death experience. Since they started living together full time. 

“You take my meaning.” 

Will huffed. “Yeah, fine.” 

Hannibal watched him leave the room, but didn’t move. He had learned by this point to give Will space and time. Years of friendship, therapy, and incarceration on both their parts hadn’t gone to waste in that regard. But somehow, it failed to fully prepare either of them for cohabitation. Familiarity bred contempt in many, but in them it seemed a strange, childish thing. 

***

Hours later, Hannibal pushed the bathroom door open and crossed his arms to stare down at Will, still curled in the tub. “Trying to drown yourself in the bath?” 

Will didn’t look up. “Thought about it.”

“But?”

He slid down a few inches, deeper into the water. “But it would just have been to get back at you and I wouldn’t get to savor the aftermath.”

“Interesting. You don’t believe in an afterlife.”

“No,” Will said, and then paused. He finally looked up. “Do you?”

Hannibal settled against the doorframe, victorious. “I do not.” 

“Not even with all your talk about God?”

“Not even then.” 

Will looked up at him, the desire to ask clearly warring with his still prevalent instinct to be angry about tedious things. Finally, he gave in, a battle for another day, and settled. “Why?”

Hannibal smiled and glanced around the room. “Shall I sit?”

Will spread his arms. “You can join me if you want.” 

“Another time.” 

Will shrugged, going for unaffected. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim of the tub. “Suit yourself.” 

Amused, Hannibal left him there to finish his book. There was a comfortable certainty in their interaction. He was exceedingly patient and Will always came back to him eventually. 

***

Hannibal woke to the sun on his face and an otherwise empty bed. 

He sat up, blinking in the glare and chose to reserve his suspicions until he had more information. Will had only recently started sleeping in the master bedroom with him, despite the fact that they had started having sex almost immediately upon their recovery. Will would kiss him, and then get up and leave, as though returning to his own home in Wolftrap, still keeping up appearances to himself. If they feel asleep elsewhere, such as the couch, Will would stay. But not in the bed until Hannibal asked him about it. 

It was not ideal, though not unlivable. Hannibal nodded to himself as he got out of the bed, possibly only his bed again, secure in the knowledge that a compromise could easily be made if Will felt the need to return to his own space. 

He found Will in the kitchen, frowning over the stove. Upon further inspection, Hannibal saw why. 

“Is this a gesture?” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. 

“This is breakfast.” 

Hannibal leaned against the counter, watching. Will didn’t flinch under his gaze, apparently too focused on his salvaging efforts. 

“Problems often arise when two large predators share a space,” Hannibal commented, inspecting the beginnings of a birds nest forming outside their window. 

“I’m not moving back to my old room, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“I would be fine with it if you were.” 

Will nodded, and flipped the eggs again, too soon. 

They sat to eat, both with an air of resignation. The food was passable, but not particularly good. Hannibal had come to expect as much. This had not been the first time Will had attempted a food-based apology. Hannibal appreciated the sentiment but admitted to himself that the charm of Will’s efforts was starting to wear off. He decided to wait to tell Will that, however. 

Will ate like a machine fuling, unfocused and brooding. The strain of the months they had spent in the house were plain on his frame. He wasn’t meant to be kept in a cage, even one of his own making. 

They had fake identities, stories to be told. Will was struggling, not morally, not so much anymore, but issues remained, stuck to him like comwebs. Acting didn’t come as naturally to him as it did for Hannibal. It was significantly more difficult for him to be a killer but still act like a normal person. As a result, he spent a lot of time away from the outside world, shut up in the house with Hannibal. 

He needed outlets, not the least of which was sex. It rolled off of him in waves, like a dam broken to reveal the steady river. It was what had him pulling Hannibal up from his chair and into the living room. He bit his mouth, hands searching for traction and finding it on his hips. Hannibal leaned into the touch, encouraging bruises. 

Will ran hot on days like this, burning out fast. He pushed Hannibal down onto the couch and straddled him, their thin pajama pants leaving little the the imagination. Hannibal reveled in the debauchery, reaching behind to pull Will close by his ass and eliciting a gasp from him when he bared his teeth and ground up against him. 

They moved against each other, too wound up to engage in anything more complicated. Will came first, going still in his arms and shaking. It gave Hannibal the opportunity to watch with lazy eyes, holding Will’s head up so he could sees his face. 

The image was striking, and Hannibal kept it for himself as he reached into his pants, holding Will by the back of his neck so he could continue to look at his eyes, half lidded and glazed. Then they narrowed, and Will brushed his hands away, taking his place. He stroked Hannibal punishingly, pulling him to orgasm rather than allowing him to slide there, unhurried. 

Hannibal leaned his head back and allowed himself be taken, the sensation of Will breathing on his face and gripping his shoulder to the point of pain part of the mosaic of sensations driving him to the edge. Will pushed him off of it, squeezing him tightly and digging his nails into his back. Hannibal let go, coming over Will’s hand with a sigh. 

Will laughed, the sound raspy and wonderfully familiar. “Good?” 

Hannibal didn’t answer. He let his eyes drift shut, basking in the experience. Then he scrambled to grab Will’s hand before he could wipe it on his pants, or worse, the couch. 

“There are tissues and a wastebasket next to the couch for precisely this reason,” Hannibal reminded him. 

Will rolled his eyes but cleaned himself up properly anyway. Then he slid down, carelessly swinging his legs up to rest of the couch and laying his head down in Hannibal’s lap. His breathing evened out, like he was falling asleep, probably because he didn’t sleep the night before. Hannibal ran his fingers through Will’s hair, as if accepting a rare gift, settling in as well. There were several books within reach for Hannibal, and neither of them had anywhere to be. 

As Will relaxed, Hannibal realized that he had come to be cautiously optimistic.

Of course, Will could not stand to leave him in that state for long. 

“I wish we had died,” Will said, craning his neck to look up at Hannibal. 

Hannibal’s grip tightened to what he knew is the point of pain, but Will didn’t make a sound of protest. He made himself relax by degrees, and spoke in a measured tone. “I often wonder what would have-”

“I’m not saying it’s a mental exercise Hannibal, I’m saying it would have been better for us to have died.” 

“Certainly it would have been cleaner.”

“Be serious.” 

“No,” Hannibal said simply, for once unwilling to indulge him. “We can’t keep doing this, Will.” 

Will looked away and didn’t respond, his gaze taking on a dream-like quality. Hannibal reached down, turned his face back in his direction. “Don’t go inside Will, stay with me.” 

Will flushed, visibly annoyed once again. “Don’t put this on me. You could have just left. You could have left me alone.” 

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you would have been happier.”

“No,” Will said, pushing himself up, taking himself away. “But I wouldn’t have been as miserable either.” 

***

Most of their days were good days. 

Shortly after their joint near-death, Will had told him about a conversation he’d had with Abigail, or at least one he imagined having with her, about parallel universes. Looking at Will now, Hannibal could believe that he was living in his best possible universe. 

The man lying in front of them was not a major killer, nothing compared to the Dragon they had fought and slayed together. He was just a tourist, fundamentally out of place in a country that didn’t want him and looking to get into trouble, looking to hurt someone where it wouldn’t follow him home. Unfortunately for him, bigger monsters found him first. 

They had good kills, even if Will still insisted on killing only other killers, and even then only very infrequently. It was not that Hannibal necessarily disagreed, they really didn’t need to be killing anyone right now, but he didn’t like limitations in anything. He was not sure that he liked this new version of himself that accommodated them. 

Still, Will was wickedly sharp, and it was worth it just to see him bare his teeth in the near-dark. 

They moved as two parts of one organism, a well-honed beast at the top of the food chain. 

Before, Hannibal planned to kill them both before they got frail. Will deserved to live and die strong, as did he. But he was younger then, more foolish. In the few short years he’d known Will, he aged a hundred years in wisdom, and broadened his appreciation for change. In flux, Will was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

Will reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, the contact comfortable in its firmness. Hannibal looked up and met Will’s eyes, still blown wide with excitement and bone deep satisfaction. Hannibal leaned in, bringing them that much closer. They didn’t kiss. Base validation was beneath them. 

Will’s hand felt like an extension of Hannibal’s own body, not charged, not distinct. The same. 

***

More than a few of their days were bad. 

It was an unofficial rule that the small parlor Will had destroyed by turning it into a project room was his domain. That was fine. What was not fine was the implication that Hannibal should not enter there, and the fact that Will seemed to think that Hannibal was unaware of that particular preference. It was insulting. 

Achilles and Patroclus never fought like that, Hannibal was sure. Their lives were ruled by order, position, and class. The military structure dictated that Patroclus belonged to Achilles, that he was obeyed, and in his obedience, truly loved. It would have made both Will and himself miserable, to live in that way, but it would have been misery of a different kind. 

Will didn’t always let Hannibal be physically affectionate with him. He didn’t always like Hannibal, the way he was, what he liked, how he spoke. He didn’t always want to be there. Sometimes, rarely, Hannibal missed Bedelia more than he loved Will. 

He told Will this out of spite once, after he spoke out of turn. Will clearly knew what he was doing but he attacked back anyway, a dog left tied up too long, turning fear into bite. 

“Then why don’t you go live with her then? At least the woman you care about is still alive for you.” 

Hannibal pressed his lips together, suddenly and abruptly furious. Will just stared back at him, eyebrows raised, waiting. Challenging him. How dare he. 

“Don’t talk about your wife to me, Will,” he answered, voice dangerously low. “It is not the same thing”. 

Will went white, then he turned red. “I was talking about Abigail!” The last word was screamed. 

Hannibal stared back at him, impassive. The silence hung between them, but Will was practically vibrating with rage. It occurred to Hannibal to step forward, to give him the fight he so clearly wanted, but he didn’t. They couldn’t keep returning to old steps, old habits. 

Will, of course, could see all of this as plainly as if Hannibal had carved the words into the air. He scoffed, then turned away and stomped out of the room, leaving the door open. Hannibal stayed where he was, resolute in his choice as always, but mentally tracked his steps, moving from the front hall to the dining room and stopping in the kitchen. A quiet pause in which neither one of them moved from their respective positions in each other’s sanctuaries, and then the first plate hit the floor. 

Hannibal’s eyebrows flew up, torn between delight at being so surprised by Will once again and bubbling anger at the obvious gesture. Not to mention the fact that he was going to have to buy a new set. Will broke all of the plates with Hannibal listening, picturing every single one with crystal clarity as it hit the floor. 

When he reached the cabinet with all the mugs and tea cups, Will paused and Hannibal found himself leaning forward, eager. There was a strange sound, like all the cups being jammed together, glass scraping on glass. Then they all hit the counter and then the floor together, smashing into what must be a jumbled, multi colored mess. Hannibal leaned back, curling one hand under his chin. Will must have stuck his arm inside the cabinet and swept them out. 

Near silence, though Will was breathing just loudly enough to be heard. Then, shoes on glass, grinding into the floor and breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. They would likely never be able to fully remove it all. They might never be able to walk barefoot into that room again, Hannibal decided to tell Will when he came back. 

Hannibal’s fingers twitched, itching to draw Will surrounded by all the glass and porcelain. He would bring Will back there after they were done, to perfect his mental image. 

Footsteps in the dining room, tracking glass. Footsteps in the front hall, less glass now. The front door opening, and then closing. 

Hannibal sat still in the study, hands curled together. Surprised, again. There was real silence now. 

***

Will did not return when Hannibal expected him to. Then he added insult to injury but not even coming back the following day. The house sat in total stillness. A silent malice. 

Hannibal did not try to find him. They existed together, but he was more than capable of functioning, thriving even, when they were apart. Astute enough to both admit that it was not his preference and to continue on anyway. 

The bakery, the butcher, the fabric shop. 

The wind in the trees when he walked, out and away from the press of humanity. The days were getting longer. 

“Hannibal.” 

She looked at him with those deep, dark eyes. An understanding. His friend. In some ways, his closest friend. 

“Chiyo.” There was nothing for miles. “Why are you looking for me?” 

For a long moment, there was just the wind and the trees between them. Chiyo looked exactly as she always had, to him. Wise and still. Not a trace of vulnerability to her. She shifted, regarding him like a particularly interesting creature that had stumbled into her garden. “I came by your house.” 

He inclined his head. “My apologies for the mess.” 

“Of course.” The wind ruffled her hair, which was flowing freely, longer than when he had last seen it. She was an untouchable goddess from a story, desired by the small minded and covetous and perfectly content to live out her existence on her own. “I had wondered if you were alright.” 

Wondered. Not worried. He smiled at her, appreciative. “I may need something from you.” 

Her head tilted to the side, drifting closer. “You consume and consume, and yet you are always hungry for more.” 

“I wish to pay a visit to Alana Bloom.” 

“Why?” 

From one breath to the next, he had his hands around her throat, squeezing the life from her as she flailed and bucked on the ground. But he was bigger and much, much stronger than her slender grace. There was no hope. In the end, he watched her accept it, coming to her death the way she did to everything in life, with poise and calm. 

Hannibal slid his hands to the back of her head, cradling it to look at her. It was so quick, bruises had yet to form. She was flawless, unmarked. The wind shifted, carrying her away, and the back of his neck prickled. 

Not Will, he knew, straightening up, turning around. The man stared at him with wide eyes. 

Empathy was never Hannibal’s strongest skill, but he understood what the man was seeing. A foreigner far from any place tourists and other foreigners had reason to be, killing a young, Japanese woman in the prime of her life. He would think of his own wife, think of her carried away by the Devilish Other. He was wrong, but his understanding was limited. 

“Hello,” Hannibal said, in Japanese. If anything, it just set the man it further unease. Hannibal watched the thought of confronting him fade away from his face. He would get help instead. 

Hannibal took a step in his direction. He ran. Hannibal chased. 

***

Chiyo’s funeral was a tasteful affair. Hannibal would settle for nothing less for her. The flowers were lilies, pink and white, soft, airy. He paired them with more grounded fruits. Holly and ash. There was not a cloud in the sky when they buried her in the open. Dry-eyed people who never knew her milled about, quiet with respect. The ritual of it was satisfying. It was very well attended. 

The irrelevant man he buried in the woods, lost and forgotten. 

Will waited until the end to approach him, bundled up in a suit he must have picked up second hand. He had a bag slung over one shoulder. Hannibal’s hands itched to tear it off of him and replace it with something better. He should be embarrassed to even be seen with him. He should kill him. He should walk away like Will walked away from him. 

He stayed still, choosing not to decide for the time being. 

Will came and stood next to him, looking down at the new grave. “My condolences.” 

“You knew her as well.” 

“Not like you. I didn’t love her.” 

Hannibal tilted his head to the side. “To know her was to love her, at least somewhat.” 

Will quirked an eyebrow. “Sounds like she never threw you off a moving train.” 

Hannibal turned on his heel to face him. “I’m surprised to see you here.” 

“Well, I felt partially responsible” 

“You are.” 

The wind blew through them, brushing Will’s hair into his forehead, nearly into his eyes. Hannibal curled his hand into a fist. The cemetary was nearly empty, and the few who remained were busy in their own worlds. 

“Walk with me.” Hannibal turned without giving Will time to respond. “I’ve been considering paying a visit to Alana Bloom.” 

Will turned this over in his mind, so clearly that Hannibal could see each strand of it. “Why now?” 

“I suspect you know.” 

“Well, I’m back.”

“Are you?” They reached the car. Will didn’t hesitate to get in, despite the fact that he must have travelled by other means. They settled into their seats in silence, and it annoyed Hannibal that the sense of rightness between them hadn't ruptured at all. 

Will was looking out the window. “Don’t drive us off a cliff, or anything. I got you a present.” 

Hannibal tightened his grip on the steering wheel, then forced himself to relax. The town rolled by, giving way to landscape in mere minutes. Their house was far away from the outside world and prying eyes, set back in the woods like a waiting beast not so much poised to strike as indifferent to the world proceeding around it. An old god. Hannibal made the left turn into their driveway, checking behind them out of habit. They weren’t followed. 

For no reason at all the house looked different than it had before. Perspective, Hannibal knew, and emotional context. For one, Chiyo would never visit again. Will slid smoothly out of the car, apparently unconcerned. He slammed the door shut, then winced. He was used to much older models, made solely of metal and prone to sticking. Hannibal fought a smile. 

Will shot him a withering glance and then, unprompted, cocked his head to the side, looking in the direction of the kitchen as though he could see through the walls. “You didn’t clean up the glass.”

It wasn’t a question, but Hannibal answered it anyway, closing his door with the usual amount of force. No more, no less. “No.” 

There was no need to respond to that, so Will didn’t, displaying his usual economy of motion. Action, and proportional reaction. He was efficient, an animal in the wild. Given the right circumstances, he was beautifully responsive. Right now, he simply made his way into the living room, taking the bag with him. Hannibal followed. 

Will sat down on the couch and pulled the table closer to him before removing a box from the bag. Hannibal sat down on the opposite end of the couch to watch. Will set the box down on the table and opened it, revealing six small teacups, each different. 

“I assume you know what this is.”

Hannibal reach out and picked one up, though they would all have to be examined individually, being unique. “Kintsugi. The Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with gold.”

“Not the most subtle, I know, but I hoped you might appreciate it.” 

Hannibal turned it over in his hand. It had been broken clean down the center, the line of gold now snaking down from the edge to the base, like a river. “I appreciate the artistry, surely.” 

Will nodded, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. “We need to deal with Abigail. It can’t- we need to deal with it.”

“I agree. Her death stands between us where there should be nothing at all.”

Will tilted his head. “Is that why you did it? To keep her from getting between us.”

Hannibal hesitated. “No. At the time I did it to hurt you, as you hurt me. But in time, perhaps. A relationship between two people is volatile enough without adding a third.”

“Too many uncontrolled variables.”

“Precisely.”

Will took in and held a breath for several seconds that Hannibal strongly suspected were counted before letting it out again. He reached down and stroked one of the the cups in the box, thumb sliding over the gold, like a starburst. That one had shattered. “I stared at these for maybe an hour in the store. The attendant probably thought I was going to steal them.”

“Lost in thought.”

Will smiled. “Drowning in it.” 

“And now?” 

“Coming back didn’t feel like a choice.”

“Yet it still was.”

“Yes.” Will took a deep breath. “I can hardly blame you for being the thing I want most.”

“No? I blamed you.”

“At first.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “I’ve never been one to reject change, when the change helps brings a thing to its fullest potential.”

Will smirked and sat back. “You’ve done all you can alone, reached perfection.”

“Yes.”

“Very humble.”

“Certainly not.” Hannibal held the hand not holding the cup, and Will took it, allowed himself to be pulled in, into the circle of his arms. He had long abandoned the irrational aversion to any loss of perceived masculinity in their relationship, and allowed himself to be held with an ease that smoothed over the edges of a messy, disjointed world. 

Perfection, he said. 

“Welcome back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!   
> paradiamond.tumblr.com ~ for more of this kind of stuff (:


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